Title:           Table for Two 20: Cafe aux Lait
Author:          Fillydelphian
Pastebin link:   http://pastebin.com/2UEGEqPL
First Edit:      Tuesday 25th of June 2013 06:07:53 PM CDT
Last Edit:       Tuesday 25th of June 2013 06:07:53 PM CDT

>The smell of coffee wafts through Em's kitchen. The mare's glasses lie on the table in front of her while she busies herself with the morning newspaper.
>You stand at the counter, gathering ingredients for breakfast.
>Since you don't have to be at work until later in the day, you decided to make something a little bit different today.
>”So what are you concocting, hon?” Em asks, looking up from the paper.
>Her eyes light up when she spots the three unripe tomatoes next to your cutting board. You crack a smile.
>”You're not,” she says slowly.
It's my own twist on a recipe from down near New Mareleans. It's practically a staple there.
>”I know. Baltimare is just north, remember?” Em shoots back. She looks to be holding back a wide enthusiastic smile. “My mother used to make me fried green tomatoes whenever I was in a bad mood.”
>You start to mix a little bit of chili powder into a bowl of flour.
>Em comes up beside you with a suddenly-worrying grin plastered on her face.
>”...so you know I'll be extra critical if you mess up, right?”
>She squeaks in surprise when you lift her onto the counter.
Keep up the attitude and I'll have them all to myself.
>Em squints at you.
I'm making eggs, too. You want to break the eggs?
>”Can I do the eggs?”
What, the whole thing? You tell me.
>She eyes the saucepan sitting on the stove.
>”I can do it.”
Chives are by the faucet.
>The mare hops off the counter and walks behind you towards the range.
>You twirl a tomato in your hand before you start slicing.
1/
 
>As you make the quarter-inch slices, you watch Em out of the corner of your eye.
>She is diligently cracking eggs into a bowl while she waits for the butter in the saucepan to melt.
Did your mom ever have you help with these?
>Em doesn't look up from her work.
>”No,” she answers. “It was always her little ritual.”
>You slide the slices to the side and grab another tomato.
So you don't know the secret to fried green tomatoes, then?
>”The secret?” Em dumps the eggs into the pan and savors the gentle hiss.
Yeah. Have you ever had them outside of Baltimare?
>”A few times. They're never right. I can never quite place why, either.”
That's because ponies north of Baltimare don't know the secret.
>Em starts to stir the eggs, making sure they don't stick. After a minute, she takes them off the heat to rest, and begins dicing chives.
>”So what is the secret, Chef?” she asks, a note of sarcasm in her voice. “It's going to be something corny, like 'love,' isn't it?”
>You cock your eyebrow and reach for a bottle in the cupboard.
Good guess, good effort.
>Em places the pan back on the burner and starts stirring again. She watches you intently.
>The bottle clanks against the hard countertop. Several bright red peppers float around inside. You uncork it and hold it out to Em.
Just take a little whiff.
>Em's eyes snap wide open and she recoils upon taking a large sniff. You laugh as she takes deep breaths trying to recover.
You like it?
>”When did you make this?” she says, eye watering against the pungent spice.
A few days ago. I wanted to surprise you.
>The mare goes back to stirring the eggs. “That brings back memories.”
2/
 
Restaurants here up north just use pepper in the flour. Real New Mareleans-style tomatoes get double-fried and splashed with this stuff.
>”That's why I couldn't figure it out,” Em muses while turning her concentration back to the saucepan.
It's a subtle difference, but important. How are the eggs coming?
>”Slowly.”
>You move the sliced tomatoes to the side and begin mixing batter.
>Em takes the eggs off the burner once more. She's taken on an expression of deep concentration now, watching the pan with intensity.
>You take the tomato slices and cover them in flour before slipping them one by one into the batter.
>A generous layer of oil shimmers in the frying pan.
>The tomatoes let out a furious sizzle when you finally put them in. As they fry, you prepare paper towels to drain with.
>After a minute and a half, you flip the now golden disks and listen as the oil hisses anew.
>A minute more and you lift the tomatoes out of the pan and onto the towels.
>The coffee aroma has been replaced now by the smooth smell of melted butter and cooked flour.
>You uncork the vinegar and splash it on the tomatoes. Once you let it soak in, you dip them again into the batter and plop them back into the pan of oil.
>Em takes a deep breath and scrunches her nose against the cloud of peppered steam that escapes the pan.
You got the sour cream, right?
>She looks at you and takes the pot off heat. You glance around her spot at the counter and see no containers. Em looks back at the fridge, then to you.
>”It...may have slipped my mind,” she says meekly, starting to walk to the fridge.
No, no, keep stirring. I'll grab it.
3/
 
>By now the tomatoes are finished. You set them on a fresh paper towel to drain. There are ten gold disks in all.
>You head to the fridge and grab the sour cream for Em.
>She takes the container and adds a dollop of the stuff into the saucepan.
>Once it's incorporated, she dumps the chopped chives in with some salt and pepper.
>You peer over her shoulder into the pan.
Not bad.
>Em frowns slightly.
>”They're a little runnier than I would have wanted,” she says, looking to you. “I did everything you did, though. They were fine right up until I put the sour cream in!”
That's what did it, then.
>”What do you mean?”
>You pick up the pan and examine the eggs inside.
When you add the sour cream, it makes the eggs more fluid. That's what gives it that creaminess. So, to make sure it's the right consistency at the end, you have to cook the eggs a little bit more firm than you want them to be. Then the sour cream brings them back.
>Em nods slowly.
Don't worry. You did fine. We just need to put this on the heat a little while longer and it'll firm up.
4/
 
>You and Em sit at the kitchen table a few minutes later, eating breakfast. Em goes through her eggs before starting on the tomatoes.
>She takes a long sniff of the morsels and leans back in her seat before taking a bite out of one.
>As she chews, a curious expression comes over her face. Her eyes start to mist over.
>”Celestia...” she breathes. You catch a subtle hitch in her voice. “They're just like I remember.”
Just think: if you work hard learning, then you'll be able to make these whenever you want.
>”I'd get fat...” she replies, looking up at you and munching on another slice.
In that case, I'll take the recipe to my grave.
>You laugh at the scandalized face she gives you in return.
You walked right into that one and you know it.
>She huffs as you ruffle her mane.
Besides, it'd take a lot more than that to get rid of me. I'm like a remora.
>”...or a tick.”
>Em glances at the clock.
>”How has work been, by the way? I've been so wrapped up in this campaign that I haven't asked.”
It's going well. There've been rumors going around that the Marechelin ponies were just west in Manehattan a few days ago, so unless they're going to try to juke us, they'll be here before they hit Baltimare and Fillydelphia.
>”You're excited.”
I've been having the kitchen work extra hard the last week to prepare. I don't know who the inspector is going to be or when they'll be at the restaurant. I want everything to be to be ready.
>”Sounds like you've got a lot on your plate.”
I guess I do, but I like it. It's what I do. Besides, compared to the Gala, this is nothing.
5/
 
>Em finishes off the last tomato slice and shrugs. “Makes sense. I'm sure you'll get at least a star. Even with everything happening recently, the restaurant is doing exceptionally.”
Well, you know what they say about bad press.
>”There isn't any such thing,” she smirks. “That's true for you. Less so for me, unfortunately.”
>You pick Em's and your plates up and carry them to the counter.
Is it still a problem?
>”Less than it was a few weeks ago, but it's still there. Filthy manages to work it into every address he makes, somehow.”
How has the PR team been doing against it?
>”Pretty well, all things considered...” her face falls. You knot your brow and come around the table to her.
Something wrong?
>”You remember Amber Waves, right? You met him after the debate a couple days ago.”
Yeah. Seemed like a decent enough guy. Why?
>”He resigned yesterday morning.”
What?
>”He took his files as well. Rose spotted him with Filthy a few hours after that. Apparently he's been working for him the whole time, right under my nose.”
Son of a bitch...
>”I know. I guess it's lucky he waited this long; the election is only a few more days off. It's not like there a whole lot he can do, but I still feel betrayed.”
>You lean down and put your arm over her shoulder.
It'll be fine. You've still got the rest of your team. You'll beat Filthy whether that little rat's helping him or not.
>”Your optimism is refreshing. I'll try to bring some of it with me to the office.”
>She gets up from the table and lays a peck on your cheek.
>”Thanks for breakfast. See you tonight.”
Ginger wanted to get together tonight, actually. You should come too.
6/
 
>That night at the pub.
>The late night crowd is out in force, it seems.
>You, Ginger, and Em managed to get a booth near the back of the place. The loud murmur of the gathered bar patrons drones in the background.
>Ginger is just finishing a story about her first day working for you.
>”...nearly set the whole kitchen on fire!” She laughs and swishes her drink around in her glass.
You should have told me you didn't know how to use the stove before that.
>”I was afraid to! I thought you'd be mad that I didn't know! You have a reputation!”
>Em giggles. “Why didn't you ask her before you hired her?” she asks.
I did. She turned it on no problem when I tested her.
>”I guessed and lucked out.”
You don't have to act so proud about it.
>The two mares dissolve into giggling.
>”So, Em -oh, this still feels weird. We already met each other, but I'm acting like this is the first time- where did you grow up?” Ginger asks.
>”It's alright, Ginger. It was a strange set of circumstances when we met.” Em casts a playful glance in your direction. “I'm from Baltimare. Grew up in the city. My parents were both in publishing. They owned the biggest printing house east of the Ponissippi.”
>”So you were well-off. How did you come to be in Ponyville? It seems like a step down from life in the big city.”
>Em sighs. “Well, that's a bit of a long story.”
>”I don't have work until noon tomorrow.”
I do--
>”Your problem.” Ginger cuts you off. “Go on.”
7/
 
>Em proceeds to relay the story to Ginger.
>You proceed to get up and walk over to the bar for more drinks to bring to the table.
>When look back a few minutes later, the two mares have evidently switched to Prancian.
>”Vous parlez prançais, si je me souviens, non?” Ginger asks. Em cocks her eyebrow.
>”Je fais, pourquoi? ” she asks in return.
>Ginger seems to become more hesitant. “Eh bien, je me demandais où vous l'avez ramassé? ”
>Em blushes. “Oh.”
>Ginger scrambles, quickly becoming flustered. “Qu'est-ce ... est-ce une sorte de sujet délicat? Ai-je demandé quelque chose que je n'aurais pas dû? Je suis désolé si je le faisais. Je ne voulais pas,” she says quickly.
>”Ginger. C'est bien, vraiment. Je voulais simplement rappeler quelque chose. Il était en fait assez banal comment j'ai appris le prançais ... ” Em looks furtively around, briefly staring at you. “... Je l'ai ramassé par un ancien petit ami de la mienne.”
>You kick yourself mentally for never bothering to learn Prancian yourself.
>”Alors Anon ne le sait pas? ”
>Em grins. “Nan. A en juger par la façon dont il nous regarde, je pense qu'il pense que nous parlons d'autre chose.”
>”Qu'est-ce que vous--”
>The orange-maned mare's eyes go wide and she turns her head slowly towards the bar. Her face turns beet red when she spots you and you decide it's time to come back to the table.
>You put the fresh glasses on the table.
So what were you ladies talking about?
>Ginger and Em exchange glances.
>”Oh, you know. Mare stuff. You wouldn't be interested,” Em says. Ginger's blushing calms down somewhat. You wish you had some kind of translator or phrasebook, but are fairly sure you know what they were chatting about.
8/
 
>Eager to change the subject, Ginger grabs her new drink and tries to adopt a more confident air.
>”So how did the two of you meet? Was it as crazy and salacious as the papers say?”
Judge for yourself.
 
>Ten minutes later.
...And then there I was, packing flowers to bring over to Em's place.
>You shrug and chuckle to yourself.
And that's how-- are you even listening, Ging?
>Ginger has since put her head down and crossed her hooves over it. At your accusation, she pops back up, now alert.
>”Wh- yeah! I was listening! It was sweet! Very engaging!”
>Em laughs.
>”Just face it, honey. It's not that exciting a story,” she muses.
I thought I told it in an engaging way.
>”Well, never mind.” Em turns to Ginger. “You said when we last met that you used to write about food, right?”
>Ginger casts her gaze downwards.
>”Yeah...”
>”What was it like? Writing about food in such a small community? I dabbled in it myself for a while, but that was in Canterlot.”
>Ginger looks perplexed. “You wrote?”
>”A bit. Mostly restaurant reviews after I left culinary school. You might have read some of my work without knowing it.”
>”Did you publish under a pen name or something?”
>”Yes. Back then I published under a pen name. Ruby Spoon.”
>Ginger's mouth drops open. “You're Ruby Spoon!?” She nearly knocks her drink over. “Your old articles are what made me want to write!”
Wait, seriously?
>The Sous sways a little in her seat from a sudden-onset cocktail of nerves, embarrassment, and cocktails
>”What made you stop?” she asks.
>”Writing? I just got tired of it, I suppose. Sure, the scene was nice for a while, but after a certain amount of time it just turned stale.”
9/
 
>Em swirls her brandy idly as she reminisces. “I was successful enough that I could have started writing about something else fairly easily, but that just isn't where my passions lie. I wanted to do something to affect ponies more directly.”
>”So you went into politics? That seems like kind of a leap, don't you think?” Ginger asks.
>”Not really, if you think about it. I liked to write reviews because it let me stay in the culinary world, but more than that it let me give ponies a fair and balanced way to know what establishments in Canterlot were worth going to. Politics was a way for me to finally get away from the food world and focus on really helping ponies; to delegate and the like. After all, my talent is in interpony relations.”
>Em clicks her glass against the table. “But I'm rambling. What about you? I'm flattered that I inspired your writing. What made you give it up?”
>Ginger coughs uncomfortably. “I-it was a bunch of things... The writing wasn't going that well to begin with. I could hardly get published, and Ponyville papers didn't care about food writing at the time. I guess I just got disheartened, and then I started running out of money and I saw an opening at Anon's restaurant...” She sighs. “I don't regret it one bit, though. I'm way better at cooking than I am at writing. I just wonder sometimes how things would have turned out if I'd stuck with it.”
For starters, I wouldn't have such a great Sous Chef on my team.
>Ginger blushes.
>Across the room, the bartender rings last call.
That late already? We oughta go, Em. I've got work early.
>”Alright. It was nice seeing you again, Ginger. Good night.”
>”Good night.”
10/
 
>Five days later. Election night.
>Ponyville's vote counting office is rather bleak looking compared to the rest of the town. You figure a set of rooms that only sees use every few years doesn't call for that much in the way of décor.
>A window on one end of the room gives a view of the counting room and the tickers which show who is currently leading in the vote.
>Across the counting room you can see the opposition's window, which appears, due to a concealment spell placed on the glass of both windows, as a large black rectangle.
>Em's supporters and friends sit around a few tables, chatting in anticipation.
>A bottle of champagne sits in an ice bucket at the back of the room, awaiting Em's victory over Filthy.
>You're seated with Rose and Em at a table in the center. The PR team stands clustered off to the side, chattering to themselves.
>As time passes, the nervous atmosphere thickens.
>There's a loud knock on the door. One of the PR ponies answers it and waves several of his colleagues over to help him carry the food delivery in.
Looks like dinner's here, Em.
>Em's eyes are locked on the window. In the counting room can be seen a running tally. She doesn't respond to you.
> “Em, come on. The count won't go any faster if you just sit here watching it,” Rose chides.
>You take a package and open it up in front of Em.
They brought green onion rangoo-oons...
>Immediately, Em snatches the bag from you.
>”Mmrorry,” she garbles, half a rangoon now in her mouth. Rose motions at her and she swallows. “Sorry. I'm just nervous.”
>Rose leans in and clicks her hooves together.
>”Don't be. This is your day!”
>”Not yet...”
11/
 
>The clock on the wall reads 10:00.
>You sit in front of a pile of half-empty take-out containers, watching the vote count slowly rise.
>Em was wandered off to talk to some of her supporters, leaving you with Rose.
>She notices you idly drumming your fingers against the table.
>”Is this your first time doing something like this? The politics must be pretty exciting in the big city,” Rose says.
>You stop drumming and look over at her.
Yeah, I mean, I've been to things like this, but I was always catering. Never actually involved. Besides, up in Canterlot they don't even have elections. The Council takes care of the city itself and those ponies are appointed.
>You look around the room.
Is it always this tense?
>”Usually. Last election, Emmie had this young mare run against her. Really got contentious near the end, but she still came out on top. I remember waiting around until one in the morning for the results.”
Speaking of.
>The two of you glance over at the ticker.
>”Still trailing, but we're catching up.”
Here's hoping what the PR team did was enough.
>Rose runs a hoof through her mane. An elderly-looking stallion walks over to the ticker and updates the percent of the vote carried by Em and Filthy, respectively.
>47/53
12/
 
>11:00.
>An uncomfortable quiet falls upon the room as conversations peter out.
You cough, searching for a topic of conversation with Rose, the only pony at your table.
>”So, how has the renovation been going?” Rose finally says.
Oh, that's going fine. I think the house is almost livable again, at least. It won't be totally finished for another few months, but it's done enough that I could move back in.
>Rose cocks an eyebrow.
>”But do you want to? You've been living with Em for a little while now, I thought you might have gotten used to it.” She lets her lips curl into a subtle grin. You toss a glance at Em, who is still surrounded by constituents and supporters.
It has been nice...
>”So why don't you ask her?”
>You whip around.
Ask her what? If I can just move in with her? Permanently?
>”Yeah. Why not? You've already lived with her for what, a month now? More? And you practically lived there before that anyway, what with all the sneaking around.”
The timing just isn't right. I don't want it to be out of necessity...
>Rose glares at you.
...Of course, once my house is finished, it won't be... I get your point.
>”Good. I knew you had a good head before your withers. How is the restaurant, by the way? Have you gotten your Marechelin Stars yet?” She ignores the troubled look on your face.
We shouldn't know for a little bit. Last I heard, the Guide ponies were still in Manehattan.
>Rose smirks. “Well, I hope you get something good. You deserve it.”
>You see Em perk up and point at the window, staring at you with a gleam of tempered excitement in her eyes.
>The ticker is updated again.
>52/48
13/
 
>12:30.
>The last of the take-out containers are picked clean by the gathered ponies.
>Em's team murmurs and chatters. Your mare has returned to the table.
What are they all talking about?
>Em looks back wistfully.
>”You really don't know a thing about politics, do you? I'm not the only one who's out of a job if Filthy takes this. They're making plans for what comes after.”
Don't you think that's a little defeatist?
>She raises an eyebrow.
>”It's just their way of dealing with a stressful situation. Besides, it's not as if our attitude will affect the outcome, now will it?” she says matter of factly.
No, I guess not.
>You sit in silence for a good minute before you turn back to her.
What about you?
>”What about me?”
Have you made plans for what comes after? If you lose?
>Em rests her head in her hooves.
>”If I lose? I don't know...”
>She tilts her head towards you.
>”I just don't know. I guess I've been avoiding it. With everything that's happened and all, I haven't wanted to broach the subject.”
I understand. It's been hard.
>”Just with everything Filthy has based his campaign on...”
>She turns fully and stares at you.
>”...Would you even still feel welcome here?”
>Your eyebrows fly up.
I--
>You find yourself at a loss.
>”That's what I was afraid of,” Em says gloomily.
It isn't your fault. The town's changed. I know we helped make that happen, but still.
>”It's become hostile, I know...I wish all this had gone differently.”
So do I. We'll talk about it later, though. Now isn't the time.
>49/51
14/
 
>The votes continue to roll in. You can't help but wonder what it's like across the way in Filthy's camp.
>Em takes a deep breath and looks at the collected ponies in the room.
>”Everyp0ny?” she begins, waiting for their attention. “I'd like to say a few words as the evening wraps up.”
>Confused, you look to Rose who simply makes a gesture to the effect of  'just listen.'
>”It hasn't been all that long at all since I first came to Ponyville at the behest of my friend Rose. It feels like a lifetime, though, since I first ran for Mayor with the support of many of you in this room tonight. Without each and every one of you, I wouldn't be where I am today. All of my happiest memories here have come as a direct result of everything you all have done for me and it would take far more than a lifetime to repay all of you.”
>Em's eyes flit around the room, finally resting on you. You can see the lights reflected in her glistening eyes as they start to mist over.
>”...To my campaign team, you have been amazing these past few years. All of you. I could never have done any of this without all of your help. I want each and every p0ny in this room to know how much your effort and support has meant to me.”
>From the counting room comes a loud ringing of a bell, signaling the final count.
>”And whatever happens...” Em turns slowly to look at the ticker. “...thank you.” And then she falls silent, slumping into your arms.
>44/56
15/
 
>A few minutes later.
>The champagne bottle at the back of the room sits unopened as the ponies file out, dejected.
>You sit with Em and Rose at the central table until the three of you are alone. You can hear the celebratory whoops and whinnies echoing through the halls from Filthy Rich's room.
>Em says nothing. She just sits staring at the ticker, which stands on the other side of the glass, motionless now.
Where did all those voters come from for Filthy?
>“I don't know. They must have been concentrated in a couple areas, though,” Rose answers.
How do you know that?
>”They all came in at once. That means the votes from a few parts of Ponyville were highly concentrated in support for Filthy,” Em says slowly.
>”Are you alright?” Rose asks.
>”I'm okay,” Em replies. She leans against you again and looks up into your eyes. “I think I'd just like to go home now.”
We can go out the back and avoid Filthy's crowd.
>Em puts on a veneer of attitude. “And look like I can't handle defeat? No, we'll go out the front and be gracious about it, even if he won't be.”
Alright. Lead on, Em.
>The bespectacled mare hops down from her chair and wipes her eyes before setting off towards the front doors. You can see the flashbulbs going off just outside and watch Em's brave face as she strides towards them.
16/
 
>When you open the doors, the deluge of questions begins. So many ponies are speaking at once that you can't make out a single one of them coherently. Suddenly one pops out in front of you.
>”Madam Mayor! Do you have a final statement for the citizens of Ponyville regarding the end of your tenure at Town Halll?”
>You usher Em through the crowd. Her composure is holding, but you can see her lip start to quiver.
No comment. Please let us through.
>”Thank you,” she whispers, once you have gotten past.
 
>You arrive at the house ten minutes later. The moon flies high in the sky, illuminating the town where the streetlights can't quite reach.
>Em stops at the door, looking down.
>Lying on the front stoop is a small leather-bound volume with a note sitting neatly on top.
>You pick up the note. Em reaches for the book.
Huh. It's from Whooves.
>You start to read.
Chef. Looks like those sneaky bastards managed to juke us after all. They came around weeks ago, it seems. The rumors were all misdirection. On the plus side, looks like--
>”Anon...” Em breathes.
What is it?
>Em shows you the page to which she has opened.
>Typed smartly under the 'Ponyville' heading is your restaurant.
>Beside its name sits a pair of stately black stars. Marechelin Stars, signifying to the whole of Equestria that you are officially a world-class chef in a world-class restaurant.
>There's a quiver in Em's voice.
>”Congratulations.”
End